


Snowpocalypse (Now)

by Kerfluffle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Gen, Humor, M/M, This is ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-21
Updated: 2011-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 12:08:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerfluffle/pseuds/Kerfluffle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas at the Cobb residence. It goes about as well as expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snowpocalypse (Now)

**Author's Note:**

> Repost from LJ. This is crack. This is ridiculous, domestic!fail Cobb. This is why I’m going to flunk out of school.

The house on the corner, strangled in unlit holiday bulbs and the yard littered with collapsed snowmen waiting for inflation, looks more fit for the Griswald family than a former high powered dream thief. 

“Christ almighty,” Eames says with reverence, eyes scanning over what appears to be Santa humping Rudolph while Dasher and Prancer and Skipper and whatever-the-hell-their-names-are look on. “Whoever incepted Cobb into thinking he’s capable of domesticity really deserves a swift execution.” Arthur doesn’t disagree, instead scanning the rooftops for snipers’ potential hiding spots.

“Will you stop that, just for a few minutes,” Eames frowns, tugging Arthur towards the once picturesque front porch. (Eames has to assume that the realtor didn’t sell this house with its current jungle of mauled evergreen branches, needles carpeting the ground. Each clue grimly foretells a dismembered Christmas tree within.) 

Eames quirks an eyebrow, “I already did recon this afternoon while picking up coffee, if that helps.” It'll be a sad day when he no longer relishes the fleeting look of surprise Arthur sometimes allows before returning to his usual unflappable calm. A very sad day.

“You sneaky bastard,” he accuses, stepping gingerly over a flattened flamingo lawn ornament with a stocking cap glued jauntily to its plastic head. “What happened to that story about you and the barista having a ‘political discourse’ over the appropriate number of espresso shots?” Eames shrugs and presses the doorbell, hoping to god above that it won’t play some hideous, tinny variation of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” He’d hate to have to murder Cobb before his sprogs open presents... Fortunately for all involved, it chimes.

“Yeah,” he admits unrepentantly, “I lied.” Arthur opens his mouth, no doubt preparing an appropriately snarky rebuttal, when Cobb unbolts the door and they both lose the ability to form coherent thoughts.

Eames might call it a holiday jumper if he’s feeling diplomatic; Arthur does call it an affront to taste, decency, and the color wheel. 

Somewhere, a rainbow is crying.

“I missed you too,” Cobb says with sincerity, and pulls Arthur in for a one-armed bro hug before allowing them to shake hands like proper adults. Arthur mutters darkly and straightens his cuffs. Meanwhile, Eames is removing at least three separate layers of the outerwear he refused to pack in his suitcase, when the chirps and squeals of youngsters assail their ears. Phillipa and James follow with Ariadne in tow; it is Ariadne, of course, who does the bulk of the shrieking.

“Presents!” James shouts, honing in on the store-wrapped packages at Eames’ feet with the accuracy and bluntness of a heat-seeking missile.

“Yes,” Eames agrees, grabbing him for a brief, squirming hug, “good to know you lot have your priorities straight.” With hellos exchanged and assurances made that Arthur and Eames will stay the entire way through dinner before heading out on their ski vacation, rather than pulling a vanishing act like last year once Cobb brought out his homemade fruitcake, the only thing left to do is get in all appropriate mocks and jabs before the moment has passed. 

Ariadne’s new bangs take an additional five years off her age: “Thus pushing her into negative numbers, which is just absurd,” Eames confirms, as the lady herself takes a dignified whack at him. 

Arthur’s inability to wrap presents is rehashed—a surprising discovery Eames made last season, given that his hospital corners are legendary. But Phillipa had stared skeptically at her tape-strewn brown lump as though it might bite, while Arthur made weak declarations that this was simply how Jewish people wrapped their gifts. Even James had to raise judgmental eyebrows at that one. 

“See!” Arthur brandishes a neat, sledding-penguin-paper-wrapped box. “We left it up to the professionals this year.” 

“Oh, so you guys are a ‘we’ now,” Cobb feels the need to point out. 

“No judging from the man wearing bunny slippers,” Arthur returns. 

“You just wait until he brings out the footie pajamas,” crows Ariadne with far too much glee. Arthur still has hope that she’s joking, so fuck those who say he’s not an optimist at heart. 

***

Yusuf staggers in midway through the dinner’s salad course—something he immediately regrets, because Cobb insists on sporting a pair of ridiculous reindeer antlers with jingle bells on the ends until everyone cleans their plate. 

The kids tend to give Yusuf a wider berth (sometimes he smells funny), but today he has mysterious boxes that spark and fizzle if you shake them, so Phillipa hands him a paper crown to wear atop his pom-pom hat.

Eames has just begun to appreciate the effects of tryptophan and champagne, slouched low in his chair, when Arthur pulls up the weather forecast on his cell phone, face grim.

“They’ve cancelled all outbound flights,” he says with pinched eyebrows. “Apparently nobody around here can handle a little goddamn snow.” Phillipa giggles delightedly at his language choice, Cobb does not.

“Arthur,” Yusuf talks around a mouthful of mashed potato, “have you actually been outside recently? Because I can assure you that this is more than a ‘little snow.’ Nobody in their right mind would go outside in the present conditions.” Arthur’s fuming subsides a bit, that is until Cobb’s phone rings and he’s subjected to the chorus of “Baby it’s Cold Outside.” 

“It’s a text from Saito,” Cobb announces, squinting at the tiny screen. “He says that he’ll be here in 30 minutes.”

“Saito can drive in this weather?” Arthur asks, incredulous.

“Of course not. He’s flying.” Cobb continues, “He also wants to know if we own a forklift. Now why do you suppose he’d ask that?” 

“I told him I wanted a small corporation,” says Phillipa innocently. “Maybe he got me a big one instead.” Through the back windows, a porch light illuminates the thousands upon thousands of snowflakes circling the air. “I also asked for a unicorn,” She adds as an afterthought. Cobb does not look well, although that might just be the sweater talking.

“I expressly told him not to spoil you guys,” his forehead creases. “Now how will you ever learn the value of hard work, become academically successful, go to medical school, have a stable income, fall in love with a person comfortable in this reality, and lead a satisfying life, huh?” Phillipa’s lower lip trembles.

“Easy there,” Ariadne puts a hand on Cobb’s wool-clad shoulder, “she’s seven, Dom. Let’s return to this conversation in another decade, mmkay?”

“You know, Dom,” Arthur smoothly changes the subject, “I’m sorry to impose, but I guess Eames and I will have to bunk here for the night.”

“That’s no problem at all,” Cobb rises to heap more wilted broccoli florets on every victimized china plate, “I have guestrooms for each of you.”

‘Guestrooms,’ Eames mouths at Arthur, and he reaches for the bottle of champagne. 

***

“Arthur, get in here,” Eames bellows, and okay, maybe Cobb hadn’t been being facetious when he’d mentioned that each guest room had its own theme now. Arthur walks in to see Eames eyeing a particularly creepy clown marionette like it might strangle him in his sleep (based on the lengthy attached strings, he has a point). 

Smiling clowns adorn the bedspread, sad clowns lounge on the bedside table lamp, and paintings of clowns with crazy eyes hang on the walls; the entire situation is a case of insomnia waiting to happen. 

Eames picks up a tiny porcelain clown figurine, pinching it between the tips of his finger and thumb, and pins Arthur with a stupidly earnest face. “Only serial killers would have this,” he says with feeling. Eames contemplates the ceramic statue again and shivers. “Mass murderers. I think it’s best if I just stay with you for the night, yeah?” He gives Arthur his best pathetic look. “You wouldn’t want me to have nightmares...” Eames hasn’t dreamed naturally since he turned 25, nightmare or otherwise, but Arthur is gracious enough not to point this out now. 

“Look,” he says instead, because this situation requires a delicate touch, “stop whining and tough it out. It’s probably…better…this way anyway.” Eames’ eyes narrow.

“You already asked Cobb and he said no, didn’t he?” Arthur rubs the base of his neck and tries to ignore the eerie feeling that about a hundred pairs of clown eyes are focused on his back. He speaks stiffly.

“Apparently James doesn’t understand why he has to sleep in his own bedroom at night if his father loves him. Cobb just thinks it will strengthen his argument if he sees two people who care about each other staying in separate rooms too.” Eames can’t fight the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth—when was the last time somebody willingly used him as their model for a loving relationship? There’s something wrong with this picture.

“And you didn’t tell him that we barely manage to tolerate one another?” Arthur had tried that tact next, actually, but Cobb got a weird, strained look on his face and said that he’d rather not explain the particular power dynamics of their relationship to his five year old son. Ever. 

An abrupt sensation sweeps through the house—cold, commanding, and smelling faintly of money mixed with childhood summers. It can only mean that Saito has arrived.

Everyone crowds into the entrance hall to shake his hand; Phillipa gets the spontaneous urge to curtsey, while James stares long past the point of politeness.

“Hello,” begins Saito, expertly removing his earmuffs. “It would appear that I have fabulous timing.”

“It’s just a shame you had to miss dinner,” Cobb laments. He’s still clutching an oversized soup ladle in one hand.

“Yes,” Saito agrees, “a great shame indeed.” James yawns hugely, signaling Cobb to carry him off to bed, and Ariadne leads a wobbling Phillipa at his heels. 

“But I’m not tired,” she declares, and then proceeds to collapse into Ariadne’s waiting arms. 

Arthur and Yusuf engage Saito in typical work related babble, Eames pours them drinks, and the four men settle into Cobb’s plush if slightly warn couches with contented sighs.

“Saito,” Arthur remarks, struck by a bright idea, “it occurs to me that you will need a guest bedroom for the night. Why don’t you take mi—” Eames makes a definitive hand gesture from across the coffee table. “—Eames’ room. We insist.” Saito seems to consider their proposal as he stands, gliding towards the kitchen. Eames clears his throat.

“It would be an honor, really,” He nods enthusiastically to accentuate his point. Saito pauses.

“Thank you for the offer, gentlemen,” he says. “However, I have,” his eyes flick upwards, “other accommodations.” Arthur's, Eames', and Yusuf’s eyes travel towards the ceiling in unison. By the time they look back to where Saito stood, he’s long gone. 

“You don’t suppose…” Eames wonders aloud. 

“Wow…” Arthur adds eloquently.

“Saito owns a hovercraft equipped with a bedroom and everything…” Yusuf breathes, “I’ve got to get me one of those.”

***

On Christmas Eve morning, Arthur awakes and stumbles blindly into the kitchen, only to find Ariadne already up and perky as shit. He permits it, because she holds out a steaming mug of coffee in his direction, and Arthur is not in the habit of biting the hand that feeds him, especially should that food be an Italian roast.

“Th’ y',” he articulates in gratitude, and she laughs, immediately launching into snow fort plans more elaborate than the world had ever witnessed before. 

“…And here we’ll mold the remaining flying buttresses,” she’s explaining, when Arthur finally regains full alertness. 

“Ariadne,” he coaches patiently, “just because it’s snow doesn’t mean that we can use it to build Penrose stairs.” Ariadne glares at him, and Arthur fights the urge to flinch. 

“Snow is magic,” she says deadpan. “Are you done now?” Then she shows him her plans for the snow kraken, tiny snow people screaming for mercy in its wide beak.

“Morning kiddos,” Cobb chirps, shuffling into the kitchen in adult footed pajamas, and oh god they’re plaid, and some scars don’t disappear, and this, Arthur realizes with horror, is one of those times. 

Ariadne excuses herself under the pretense of searching for Eames, because while Arthur helps her construct elegant snow palaces, Eames joins her in building a giant mythical sea monster so graphic that the neighborhood watch association files a complaint. 

The remainder of the day passes in a blur. Saito materializes around noon—although nobody can determine how or from where—but soon disappears under the guise of having “an evil empire to run” or something. 

Yusuf spends his time tinkering with holiday crackers; Phillipa wants hers to explode in a puff of pink smoke, but thus far Yusuf’s only managed to melt three plastic toys, crack Cobb’s one good soup tureen, and produce a very healthy white mouse, whom Phillipa christens Spartacus.

(Arthur is eventually banished from the yard after he picks up one of the deflated snowmen and says, “Look, kids, it’s Frosty!” James promptly starts to cry.)

Yusuf and Cobb do the majority of the cooking, consequently leaving the remainder of the food-eating populace fearing for their lives, but perhaps not as much as if Arthur were put in charge.

“End up in the ER with third degree porridge burns one time, and suddenly you’re a culinary pariah,” Arthur grumbles as he’s physically removed from the premises, advised to help Ariadne arrange the floral centerpiece instead.

“Darling,” Eames says, fingers itching to palm and pocket each polished piece of silverware he sets down, “I think we can all agree that it was less the hospitalization, and more the fact that you actually reheated porridge until it could inflict that level of damage.” Arthur chooses to ignore him in favor of removing each frivolous flower from the assortment, stripping it to a bare, minimalist arrangement that depresses everyone who glances at it during the course of dinner.

Cobb is in the process of transferring leftovers into Tupperware containers, Eames is washing an intimidating stack dishes, Yusuf is wiping down the table, Arthur is dusting (for some inconceivable reason), and Ariadne is helpfully directing Yusuf as to where he missed a spot, when Phillipa enters the kitchen with a serious expression on her otherwise youthful face.

“Daddy?” She inquires, small nose scrunched in deep thought, “can I ask you a question?” Cobb smoothes shut the top to a bulging bag of creamed spinach.

“Anything, hon.” Philipa tilts her head to one side.

“Where do babies come from?” The very air in the room seems to still. Cobb fumbles and drops the sludgy spinach matter, allowing it to ooze at his feet. Eames begins to whistle tunelessly. Ariadne coughs to smother her laughter.

“Um, well,” he flounders, tugging at the collar of his stripy, woolen cardigan. “You see, with men… a woma… they wil…” he stutters his way to a halt, silently pleading with the others for an intervention. But they’re bastards, every one of them. 

See if Dominic Cobb sends out a single thank you note this year. 

Meanwhile, Phillipa waits with her arms crossed. 

“Right, so there’s this guy,” Cobb launches in, voice overly cheerful and expressive. “And he lives, uh, north of here—somewhere more private—but he has a big heart, right? It’s his job, with the help of his dog Pax, is to load babies onto his ramshackle sleigh and bring them to all the good little parents.” Phillipa narrows her eyes in an uncanny imitation of someone Cobb can’t quite place.

“Daddy,” she speaks as if he’s a bit slow on the uptake, “that’s The Grinch.” He feigns shock.

“Oh, you’re right! How silly on me. What really happens is mommies and daddies around the world put coins under their pillows, and a magical lady with wings flies in at night and turns those coins into babies.” Phillipa remains nonplussed.

“That’s the tooth fairy,” she accuses venomously. 

Yusuf hasn’t been this entertained since he watched two ants do parkour in frilly metallic tutus. (Certain delicate compounds may have contributed to this experience, it’s true, but what’s one asterisk on the experience list of life?) 

Cobb’s voice has lost some of its conviction. “So, there’s this giant bunny rabbit, and he hides multicolored eggs around the yard; believe it or not, babies hatch from those eggs.”

“Easter bunny,” Phillipa yawns.

“Tiny green-clad men with Irish accents hide babies in special pots of gold, leaving parents to follow rainbows until the find them?” 

“Leprechauns.” 

Arthur holds the feather duster still in his hands, attention successfully diverted from his campaign against bunnies of the dust variety.

“There’s this giant bird called a stork, and it sort of carries them in its mouth, like a baby postal service.” 

“That’s just ridiculous.” Cobb’s shoulders slump.

“When two people love each other very much, the might choose to have a baby. It grows in a special place inside Mommy before it comes into our world.” Philipa seems to puzzle this through.

“Oh,” she says, “okay. Can I leave some protein bars and carrots out for Santa and Rudolf now?”

“Protein bars?” Eames asks with amusement.

“Yes,” Phillipa tosses her fair, wispy hair over one shoulder. “The last thing Santa needs while working out is more sugar. We learned about it in school.”

Cobb’s face doesn’t return to its usual shade of pink until long after both children are safely, securely tucked into their beds, and he’s done several deep-breathing exercises—the same ones they do during his Tuesday yoga class.

Arthur ends up crawling into bed with Eames—in a show of solidarity, mind you—but also because he can. Plus, he’ll just sneakily awake early the next morning and slink back into his nautical themed bedroom (the bed is a row boat) with nobody the wiser.

What Arthur forgets to factor into his brilliant plan, goddamn Eames and his inherent distracting-ness, comes in the form of a hideous, awful, in-no-way-life-affirming four am wake up call, courtesy of the two littlest Cobbs. No child actually sleeps on Christmas Eve.

First they hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet on hardwood floors, followed closely by the whispers that are trying to be quiet, but actually end up louder than regular talking. The door creaks open. Phillipa has Eames’ Christmas stocking in her hands, weighed down with god-only-knows, and James has a smile that turns into a shriek when two groggy, slightly hostile faces emerge from under the cover of one giant, smiling clown. That forces an awkward appearance by Cobb, decked out in a flannel night-shirt, and he levels them both with a look of deep, soulful betrayal. Then he makes omelets for everyone. 

***

“Someone should probably get Saito,” remarks Cobb, staring pointedly at James. The blond boy sits cross-legged in front of the tree, preparing to devour his presents, and perhaps anyone who stands in his way. 

“I have his number,” Arthur volunteers, fishing around in his pants pocket. To think that people (Eames) scoff at him for only purchasing pajama pants that have pockets.

“What?” Cobb slices another red pepper. “He’s still in the house, Arthur. You can’t possibly be that technologically dependent yet.” Arthur scowls.

“In the house?”

“Yes, in the attic.” Arthur drops his phone. 

“Saito’s been sleeping in the attic?” The conversation has to be, mercifully, put on hold, because Saito chooses that moment to waltz in on horseback.

Once Cobb has finished berating him for ruining the carpet, the floor, and his children’s standards of normalcy, everyone settles down to watch James and Phillipa rip off colored paper with violent, reckless abandon.

“It’s a home chemistry kit,” Yusuf supplies helpfully, watching Phillipa wrestle with the packaging. “The first project is how to make napalm, and it goes from there.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Cobb manages. “No, seriously. You really shouldn’t have.” 

Between Saito’s Friesian and Yusuf’s home meth lab, Arthur and Eames’ nerf guns seem utterly tame; Cobb is thrilled. 

What Cobb does not know, is that his children will fall hard for the guns, leave hundreds of pesky foam darts throughout the house for years to come, and eventually tinker with the weapons so that they shoot faster, harder, and objects more deadly than foam. For now, he’s just grateful nobody bought Phillipa a Happy Family Pregnant Barbie.

Ariadne goes classic with her choice of Lego, helping James spread them out, effectively blanketing every square inch of the living room in sharp, painful bits of plastic. Cobb’s feet wince in anticipation. 

“Merry Christmas, you guys,” Ariadne says with a smirk. Eames raises his glass of orange juice, Arthur his mug of coffee, Yusuf his fruity cocktail (umbrella included), Cobb his hot cocoa with mini marshmallows, and Saito his somehow-not-inappropriate-for-this-hour sake.

They drink, because they are having a nice time. 

“What’s tri-nitro-tol-uene?” Asks Phillipa.


End file.
